


Dark Fantasy/Feral Bard AU rambles

by QueerIsMe



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fae, Angst, BAMF Jaskier | Dandelion, Curses, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Fae & Fairies, Feral Jaskier | Dandelion, Heartbreak, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt No Comfort, Immortal Jaskier | Dandelion, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Imprisonment, Introspection, Multi, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Non-Human Jaskier | Dandelion, POV Multiple, POV Outsider, Poetry, Post-Episode: S01E06 Rare Species, Wishes, important to note, it’s meh, it’s more metaphorical than anything, jaskier has teef, made up folk songs, no beta we die like jaskier’s emotions, not yet at least
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-10
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-16 09:14:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 3,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29329899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueerIsMe/pseuds/QueerIsMe
Summary: BREAKING NEWS: Feral and Undying Bard Loose in the Woods. Only Person Who Controls Him is a Malevolent Faerie.aka snippets and rambles about my dark fantasy/feral bard aulot of angst ahead
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Kudos: 13





	1. Summary

summary of this AU

Long summary: A heartbroken Jaskier leaves the mountain and makes his way to Oxenfurt. He spends a year there, mending the hole left behind by Geralt’s cruel words. He’s fine, he swears. No he’s not going to make careless wishes like a certain someone, who do you take him for? 

And then he’s called to Lettenhove for urgent family business. And then he goes missing. 

It’s been five years since anyone had seen the bard, six since Geralt had sent him away. The regret has been twisting inside ever since that day but he’d been too busy with Ciri’s training to look for him. It isn’t until he heard in passing of the bard’s disappearance that he finally starts to seek the man out. The witcher may already be far too late but he had to know what happened to his friend.

Short version: Jaskier drunkenly gave a faerie his name and made some stupid wishes and now he’s 1) apathetically angry 2) trapped under her thumb 3) immortal

Short and stupid version: Bard’s gone feral


	2. How it starts (drabble)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> one of the first non-rambley pieces of writing i did for this au

Jaskier died clutching the dress of a woman he barely knew, in a forgotten forest under a clouded night sky. Julian is reborn with his captor’s claws sinking into his skin, in a caged clearing surrounded by mists and magic. 

He died crying, his tears having left clean tracks upon his face, dirty from travel. He is reborn dry eyed, his tear tracks turned to ash and charcoal, smudged by shaky hands. 

He died with pained cries and heaving sobs from his lips, heartbreak and a wish within his breast. He is reborn with angered shouts and apathetic grunts in his throat, rage and a yawning void all that’s left inside.

He lived a life of full of music and emotion, following a man created to slay monsters. He exists to torment and feel nothing but rage, a caged beast under the command of a monster. 


	3. There was a couple in the forest (one shot)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The villagers of Alston live next to a forest with a forgotten name. They know to never enter it.

There was a couple in the forest.

A man and a woman, they said. Most of the townspeople had seen the man, at one point or another. He emerged from the trees once per season, a purse full of coins in hand. Those days always saw the sun behind a thick blanket of clouds, no matter if the night sky had been clear just before dawn. 

At first glance most would assume the man was merely a traveller down on their luck. But a closer look revealed him to be something far more than a mere traveller. Torn at the knee and lined with holes though they were, his icy blue chemise and charcoal colored breeches were unnaturally clean. The pale color nearly glowed in the misty light that blanketed the town and forest. Barefooted he walked amongst them, dirt lining the bottom of his feet but never growing dirtier, even in the mud. The very tips of his fingers were always covered in soot but no matter what he touched, it never smudged or left prints. 

The most unsettling thing the townspeople would whisper about is the way the mist clung to him. How it would swirl and dance between his legs. The way it thickened and spun with his anger but played with his apathy. How it would only appear when he did and obscure his silhouette when he stepped towards the trees. 

But what struck the townspeople from their place of comfort and feeling of safety in a way the mist never could, were the man’s eyes. For all the smiles he would give them, a glimpse at that pale gaze only inspired ice cold dread within the beholder. Colder than the harshest winter and far more dead than what a living man should have, those eyes spoke of something inhuman. Nothing lived behind them. They held all the emotion witchers supposedly had. 

But even worse than the dead gaze was the one were filled with anger. Only once did the townspeople see it. Few knew what sparked the man’s ire, but all knew of what entailed. The hushed instructions to not bother the man, to not approach, don’t look him in the eye, were whispered by mothers every cloudy day. Travelers were rushed out of town or encouraged to stay in their rooms when a fog rolled in. Shopkeepers and market stalls were kept open but only employed a single person, knowing or harshly instructed to keep conversation short and simple. 

Most everyone has seen the man. No one has seen the woman. Her presence is only known because someone overheard the man muttering about a “she.” The people have multiple theories about who “she” might be, but no one dares to ask the man. 

The barkeep and a server at the tavern whisper of a night years ago, of when the man had first arrived. They tell of how the man was not the creature of today and how he had looked as if he wear any other traveler. Wearing the same clothes as he does now, but whole and slightly dusty from the road, the man had sat in a corner and ordered a few ales before being approached by a woman. Beautiful and ageless, she wore a sky blue dress. Her charcoal colored hair was worn loose, flowing down her back in long straight locks. Her eyes were an icy blue with lips painted a dark red.

The two storytellers would gloss over how her outfit was so close to simple shift that most would be scandalized upon viewing it. They wouldn’t admit to the fact that they had paid no mind to her, merely serving her ale as she asked for it. They would emphasize how the man’s behavior grew erratic the longer she plied him with drink until he snapped at another patron. How she watched with a smug smile as the man got into a brawl before he was thrown out. They would puzzle over how she had the coin to pay for the drinks with no coin purse at her hips before she sauntered out of the building after the man. 

The tale would end with the server whispering about the gathering of mist along the tree line as she wandered home. Of how she could see what she thought to be lightning bugs flickering in and out of the trees. And how she wouldn’t realize until she had laid in her bed that lightning bugs don’t glow an icy blue.


	4. Have you heard? (song/poem)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a shitty folk song i spent too much time on

Have you heard?

Have you heard?

Of the woman in the wood?

Cast a spell

And this tale you shall tell

Of the woman in the wood

Shadows and lights

In screams she delights

Soot upon snowy skin

A web she shall spin

Arbiter of Anguish

The Woman of the Wood

Have you heard?

Have you heard?

Of the man of the mists?

Cast a spell

And this tale you shall tell

Of the Man of the Mists

Missing a heart

he shall tear you apart

Icy eyes over tears of ash

Pray you shall never clash

Regent of Rage

The Man of the Mists


	5. Of Geysers (poem)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A bard left alone with no need for sleep and no lute is a sad bard indeed

Sleep is unnecessary.

And so.

He  ~~ wonders ~~ thinks while staring at the stars.

He thinks of geysers. 

Of how they lay dormant.

Unassuming.

Blank in a way.

Holes in the cracked earth.

And yet…

beneath the surface, they  boil .

Roiling, burning hot water waiting for. 

Just.

The right.

Moment.

To  _Blow_. 

_ Scathing _ hot water raining down.

_ Burning _ everyone standing too close to it.

_ Killing _ anyone foolish enough to stand on top.

And he compares it to  ~~_ Geralt _ ~~ himself.

To the man he is cursed to be. 

To the man he wished himself to be.

And he closes his eyes. 

~~_ Wonders _ ~~

Thinks about the stars above him.

_It’s beautiful_ ,  he whispers. 

There is no awe in his breast.


	6. Never Left (drabble)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> trauma for the bard
> 
> also Ira’s a bitch

_ Darling, you’ll never be free of me or you’re wish if I have my way. And we both know, I  ** always  ** get my way. _

It had been her response to one of his fits, his anger at her and his situation culminating into him threatening to find a witcher or mage to kill her and free him. He hadn’t thought about it at the time nor immediately after, too focused on how his anger brought back the feeling of heat and his own heart. 

That simple exchange was the furthest thing from his mind as he fell to his knees with sobs and screams ripped from his throat. All the things the curse had robbed him of tore through him in a tidal wave of sensation. The guilt and horror over the things she had him do clashed with the relief from knowing she’s dead. The anguish from watching so many people die, their ashes clinging to his skin.

He gasped out as waves of pain ripped through him, all of his wounds experienced again. Bile rose in his throat and he felt as if he was going to die. He could barely breathe. The rush of air in his lungs, the tears on his cheeks, the pounding of his heart vied for attention as he clutched his shirt and tore at the grass, thoughts scrambled before one pushed itself to the forefront. 

A wish. 

_ Stop, please. _

And then all at once, it stopped. He could still feel the grass, the air, the pain, could hear Geralt calling his name. But it was muted. Underwater. He had sunken into an all too familiar apathy as soon as the wish crossed his mind. And then it was gone.

As soon as he realized what happened, everything was back. Even so, as he sobbed and gasped and retched, that exchange all those years ago crept up on him until it echoed in his mind. A slowly mounting horror rose above everything else as a realization dawned on him.

_She was right_.


	7. Old Friends (one shot)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> introducing Lavender, a faerie bard who jaskier met years ago at a bardic competition and became friendly rivals with
> 
> he doesn’t know she’s a faerie tho

The night is growing darker, her coin purse fatter, and the tavern patrons drunker with each song she plays. So drunk and rowdy are the villagers that they don't notice the entrance of the witcher and his companion. 

But she does. If not for her decades long muscle memory, the wave of horror, relief, and confusion that crashes into her would have made her fumble the next chords. 

For standing next to the witcher was Jaskier. Six years had passed since she had last heard from him, five since anyone had last seen him. But…something was wrong.

It was in the simplicity of his outfit, a plain icy blue chemise tucked into black trousers; the lack of reaction when he saw her on stage, a mere passing glance with eyes shadowed in the lamplight where once there would have been a crow of delight or perhaps a good-natured heckling; the suspicious lack of a lute case swung around his torso, instead carried by the hulking figure next to him. And the mere presence of the other man next to her friend. The vitriol and heartbreak staining his words whilst describing the dragon’s quest and vow to never follow the man who’d thrown him away burned in her mind’s eye as the witcher gently steered Jaskier to a table. 

Something was very, very wrong. 

But she still had a few songs in her set left. And she still hadn't eaten. Fuck.

* * *

The bard was watching them. She was doing a good job of hiding it, but he could feel her eyes linger on them as she pranced around the tavern. He was unsure of what she wanted with them but her gaze kept slipping towards Jaskier and it was making him uneasy. His medallion’s near constant vibrations due to the ex-bard had only increased as soon as they stepped into the tavern and grew each time she moved closer. It was only the man across from him’s insistence he “Eat a proper meal, Geralt, by the gods!” that kept him from dragging the ex-bard out of the tavern and into the safety of the woods. He could still feel the heat from Jaskier’s glare after he noticed the witcher skimping on feeding himself to increase their pace. The man’s threat to drink all of his potions in retaliation echoes in his mind as he sips his watery broth.

“My dears, I am quite saddened to say that this is the end of my performance! I feel quite honored to have been graced with your presence but, I am quite famished. I wish you all a very good night!”

With that, the bard packs up her lute and hops of the stage. By the humming of his medallion, Geralt knew without looking that she was approaching their table. 

Fuck.

* * *

It’s a relief when the crowd lets her go easily. She starts packing her lute back into its case, gathering the coins scattered around, when she spares a glance towards the corner. Her eyes meet Jaskier’s, his head tilting to the side ever so slightly as he gazes back at her. It should feel like an invitation or curiosity but unease settles in her gut instead. It’s hard to make out his face in the shadows but she swears it’s completely blank. 

Eager to get her meal but even more eager to confront the once missing man, she nods towards the barkeep. He nods back and she sets her sights on the corner table. With every step she takes, the witcher grows ever tenser. By the time she makes it within a meter or two of their table, his scowl had deepened to a near snarl and she can hear the wooden tankard splintering under his grasp. If it were anyone else, she would have stayed away. But her friend is sitting there, blankly watching her approach, not even a smile on his lips. 

She stops within a meter of the table, a frown playing on her lips. As soon as she opens her mouth to speak, Jaskier cuts her off. A smile slides its way onto his face and he jumps up out of his seat, arms waving.

"Ah, Lavender! Hello! A wonderfully dull set as always,” he teases.

_He’s always been a good actor,_ she thinks absentmindedly.

The bubbly personality she knows from experience is perfect. But it’s the pulsing wave of _malevolencehateempty f a e_ that shreds her budding hope. The smell of mist and decay clings to it, the scent only detectable to other faerie.

“That was weaker than Marx’s attempt to hold a sword and we both know it,” she snipes back, “What’s wrong?”

And just like that, he freezes. The mask he put on slides off and a frigid stare replaces it. It reminds her too much of another icy gaze as the pulsing wave of _malevolencehateempty f a e_ grows. Alarm bells ring in her head as he sits back down.

“Nothing is wrong, go back to your seat," his words are like icicles, piercing through any lingering hope that she was mistaken. 

Fear, dread, concern, anger. They well within her breast, nearly choking her. She takes a moment and breathes deeply, wrestling the tidal wave down to a more manageable trickle. It would do her no good to lose control here. 

Once she can breathe freely, she glances around the tavern. Seeing that no one is paying them much attention she summons a quick privacy ward around them. She rolls her eyes as the witcher shoots her a look, his hand drifting towards the swords leaning against the wall. 

"To keep this between us," she mutters before squinting at Jaskier. 

He gazes back at her, the frigid look replaced with empty eyes. Dread rises in her but she squashes it back down. She steps closer and leans against the table, gazing directly into Jaskier’s eyes as she does. She thinks of choosing her next words carefully but decides not to as another pulse of magic washes over her.

"Buttercup, if nothing's wrong, then what in Melitele's name are you wearing and why are you traveling with him again? Furthermore, darling, why do you reek of fae magic?"

While speaking, she slips into the seat next to Jaskier, heedless of the warning growl Geralt let out. A quick wave of her hand and the witcher is frozen. She goes to say something else but a hand grabs her wrist, it’s grip bordering on painful. 

“Let him go,” Jaskier growls.

His rumbling voice drags forth that wave of emotion she was trying desperately to smother. Whatever she was going to say dies on her tongue as she takes in the man in front of her. The cold glare from before had nothing on the fire in his eyes. They burn brighter than the sun as they pin her in place. Her heart quickens to a rabbit's pace and she can hear her blood rushing in her ears. Distantly, she thinks of a lyric comparing them to the blazing blue stars above. 

Her musing is cut off as a gasp escapes her, that pulsing magic turning hot and the empty feeling replaced by _rageragerage_. It burns against her own magic, feeling as if she was stuck in a raging forest fire. Ozone and smoke follows it and she’s quick to release the witcher. The man grunts as he’s unfrozen and the hand gripping her wrist let’s go.

“Shit, Jaskier,” she pants, as the ozone/smoke smell recedes and is replaced by the previous scent.

She goes to rub her wrist, eyes darting down to it. She wrestles the wave back down again, hesitant to look back into those eyes. They were near identical to another pair, one that haunts her dreams and forced her into human civilization all those years ago. She shakes her head softly and steels herself.

She expects lingering embers, an echo of resentment, when she brings her gaze back up.

Instead all that meets her is a blank slate, barely anything smoldering behind them. Something else makes her pause. She hadn’t noticed before but now she can make out a film of magic, separate from that pulsing wave, covering those eyes. She leans closer and _pushes_ past it, hoping to lift it, even for a moment. Her heart aches as Jaskier blinks and the glamour is removed. He doesn't react to her touching his hand nor when she softly cups his face.

_It’s like he can’t even feel it_. 

Her thumb gently rubs the stubble underneath it as she gazes into his pupiless eyes. 

"Buttercup…What happened to you?" she whispers.


	8. Lost Time (drabble)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier finally asks Geralt how long he’s been missing

He tries not to be bitter these days, pushing it down when the familiar heat bubbles under his skin. He does his best to snuff it out with the thinnest optimistic veneer but the feeling only grows the longer it’s ignored. He knows this but the ache to be who he was forces sunny smiles and whinging over sore feet instead. The feeling only continues to grow, however, as simple things pile up only to crush him under the reminder of the years he lost under Ira.

The news of the peace treaty between the Northern Realms and Nilfgaard spread like wildfire across the Continent. The last Jaskier had heard of the war was of Nilfgaard marching on Cintra. He had been making his way from Lettenhove at the time and had heard of it in passing. The next village he had stopped in was Alston. He hadn’t heard much news after that.

The tavern the three of them were in was a buzz with the knowledge, ale flowing freely and Lavender belting out tunes on one of the tables. She had swapped her typical lavender and golden ensemble for a baby blue with silver accents. It’s color combined with the geometric embroidery on her cloak reminds Jaskier far too much of another outfit. Funny how what must have been a decade or so had passed since then and yet rust-stained chemises and bloody throats had become his new normal for much of it. 

Hilarious how he has no clue how long it’s been.

He tries not to be bitter over it. Tries to drown out the taste with sour wine and replace it with an optimistic hope. Maybe it hadn’t been that long. It’s enough to push him to ask.

“How long?” he blurts out low enough no one but the witcher could hear, a long gone fear of appearing stupid quieting his words, “How many years since Cintra?”

There’s a desperate note underneath it. Something fragile and tremulous tinting the hushed questions.

It shatters when Geralt looks away, guilt tightening shadowing his eyes and muscles jumping under his cheek as his jaw clenched.

There’s a long pause. Only sounds of the patrons and Lavender’s performance are audible as dread rises in Jaskier’s chest. 

“Five,” Geralt finally grinds out.

“Five years,” Jaskier can faintly hear himself echo back.

Time seems to slow down as he processes. Shock hits him first. He feels his fingers start to tingle as it sets in before it’s washed away by curiosity. Question after question race through his mind,  _ What happened? Where’d Geralt go? Is his Child Surprise okay?  _

_ Why didn’t you look for me? _

The anger is lightning quick, bitter resentment over losing time morphing into a firestorm of hurt rage. It burns through him, unearthing the unresolved pain from their second to last parting and unleashing the wave of negativity he’d been holding back.

“Why?” he hears himself ask.

Time speeds back up and his cup is creaking dangerously in his too tight grasp. He takes note of how his body is shaking from holding himself still. His heart is pounding in his ears, the too familiar feeling of heat spreading through him. He glares at the man across from him, the monster Ira turned him into clamoring to break free.

“ _Five_ _years,_ Geralt. Six since we had parted for good. _Why_ did it take you so long? Did you ever even look for me?”

**Author's Note:**

> okay so like im more of an artist than a writer but i wanna share my ramblings about this damned au on a place that’s like actually built for writing and shit
> 
> you can find the artwork i’ve done for this au under the #dark fantasy au tag on my tumblr phoenixandjacob


End file.
